Before I begin, let me make one thing crystal clear: I do not condone, excuse, or overlook the reprehensible actions tied to the individuals I’m about to discuss. Their art — no matter how brilliant or groundbreaking — does not erase the accusations or the harm they’ve caused.
In recent weeks, devastating accusations have surfaced about Neil Gaiman, an author celebrated by millions. If even a fraction of these claims are true, then he is not a genius; he is a predator hiding behind the mask of brilliance. Multiple women have accused him of sexual abuse, and his ex-wife, artist and musician Amanda Palmer, has faced scrutiny for her alleged complicity.
The detail that strikes the deepest chord is this: some of these alleged encounters were witnessed by his young son. The thought of such betrayal, of that kind of trauma, is nearly unbearable.
I’ll admit, I’ve never read Gaiman’s work. I’m not writing this as a disillusioned fan. I’m writing as an observer, horrified to see another once-revered name added to the growing wheel of peasents.
As a lifelong wrestling fan, I’ve been grappling with this type of conflict for years. Vince McMahon, a man synonymous with professional wrestling, has been accused of some of the vilest acts imaginable. I was a fan of wrestling long before these accusations came to light and his resignation from WWE, and I remain one now. But his actions cast a dark shadow over everything he built.
Hulk Hogan — a name once synonymous with heroism — uttered racist remarks that shattered his legacy. Chris Benoit, one of the greatest in-ring performers of all time, committed the unthinkable when he murdered his wife and son before taking his own life. And even my personal favorite, Ric Flair, has been accused of appalling behavior during the notorious “Plane Ride from Hell.”
But let me pause for a moment: if WWE doesn’t change Gunther’s name back to Walter, we’re going to have a serious problem. His mama named him Walter!
But I digress…
Where was I?
Eric Clapton is on my personal Mount Rushmore of guitarists. His music — soulful, transformative — was a gateway to the blues for me. But the man himself? From racist rants that forever tarnished his name to the selfish and irresponsible comments he made during the height of the COVID pandemic, I’m done with him as a person. Yet his music, against all odds, still moves me.
Then there’s Woody Allen. A master storyteller. A genius in the realm of film and theater. Annie Hall remains a gold standard for romantic comedies nearly half a century later. But the deeply disturbing accusations that have followed him for decades leave me sickened. I can admire the art while condemning the artist.
Years ago, I watched Ender’s Game and enjoyed it as a harmless and fun sci-fi adventure. But when I learned about Orson Scott Card — his hateful rhetoric and bigotry — I was horrified. Still, the film itself stands apart in my mind. It’ll never rank with the Star Wars movies in my mind, but it was still a good time.
And then there’s J.K. Rowling. I’ve never been part of the Harry Potter phenomenon, but there’s no denying the inspirational arc of her success story. Unfortunately, her harmful and polarizing comments in recent years have cast a shadow over her legacy.
Here’s the heart of what I’m saying: it is possible to love the art while rejecting the artist. To admire the work without endorsing the actions of the person who created it.
Even someone like Jerry Sandusky — a brilliant football coach whose monstrous crimes are unthinkable — is an example of this duality. He will (rightfully) spend the rest of his life in prison for the horrors he inflicted against those boys. But his talent as a coach, though tainted, remains undeniable.
Let me reiterate: I do not condone, excuse, or forgive the harm these individuals have caused. But I believe it’s possible to hold two truths at once: we can condemn the person and still acknowledge the impact of their work.
Oh, and one more thing: it is absolutely possible to restore Gunther’s name to Walter. Because some things — when they just work — should never be messed with.
To borrow a line from my “cousin” Arsenio:
“His mama named him Walter, I’ma call him Walter!”
